


To Weave A Web Of Clouds Across The Sky

by Berguba



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, Bulge Sucking (Homestuck), Bulge Warming, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Choking, Choking on a Dick, Choking on a bulge, Cock Warming, Drug Use, F/M, Gaslighting, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Prostate Massage, Somnophilia, Vague Troll Drugs, is that a tag?, or i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-01-02 22:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berguba/pseuds/Berguba
Summary: Originally, Spidermilk.Beta'd by the artiste soon to formerly be known as Umbel.So this is intended as the first of a series and is probably the lightest out of all of them so there's that. The eventual goal is to have Vriska "wean John off" the vague plotonium drug, but alas, she's actually just giving him more concentrated doses to get him hooked so he can't leave her. (He wasn't gonna but then he does because of the whole raping and drugging thing. That's okay though because she controls his supply so when withdrawal hits he has to go to her to beg.)Currently toying with the idea of two alternate endings, as well as writing this same fic from John's drugged/dreaming perspective.In this one though, she just drugs him and does him some fuck.





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is John Egbert and you are kiiiiiiiind of freaking out. Your homemade cookie malt shake, while just about as delicious as always, usually doesn’t make your lips go numb. At first you figured it was just the chilliness of the drink. Pretty run of the mill sort of brain freeze stuff. That was until the numbness didn’t stop. Until the tingling spread, crawling across your flesh and soaking into your sinew, leaving you more or less incapable of coordinated gross motor function.

So now, you’re lying supine on your living room floor, in the middle of a spreading puddle of semi-frozen dairy treat, totally helpless. And you’re tripping balls like you’re a tactically placed wire at the end of one of those airport slidewalks. Balls are falling head over heels here, on wild fucking safaris out on luxury vacations. Crazy trips.

More specifically it’s like someone replaced your eyes with kaleidoscopes full of freaky iridescent spiders spinning refractive webs out of the light. Like a shimmering haze of diamonds. Speaking of diamonds, your dick is hard as. You’re not even turned on, it’s just going wild down there. It’s really straining like wild, popping a tent like the circus is coming to town and paying prime dollar for real-estate. Fuck, it’s actually starting to hurt. If you could move your body you’d free that sucker and try to wrangle it into quiescence.

**Be your GF ⇒** **  
** **  
** Your name is Vriska Serket and everything is going according to plan. You arrive home — a domicile significantly less palatial, but, equally, more welcoming than your hive of origin — and lock the door behind you.

You take a moment to go around and close the blinds to ward off the potential of nosy neighbors or meddling friends. Then, secure, you take in the sight of your lover — insensate, drooling, and erect — on the floor. Of course, he’s spilled his drink, the goofball.

Ever the problem solver, you drag John from the cold dairy puddle and strip him, using the dry spots of the clothes to mop up most of the spill; it can be properly cleaned later. On your way back from dumping the laundry in the hamper, along with, while you’re at it, your own clothes, you arrange the evidence in your favor. He doesn’t have a photographic memory of the arrangement of the refrigerator at the best of times, so any changes you make now will make him much more inclined to your preferred narrative.

Once the chore of doctoring the evidence is complete, you turn to your prize. He’s still sticky with drugged dairy and sugar, and you drag your tongue across his bare flesh — you have to admit, the agitated dairy beverage hides the bitter, chalky, taste of the drug admirably — and begin cleaning the thick, sticky-sweet mess from his smooth — soooooooo smooth — skin.

Your lips tingle as the residue begins to seep slowly into your system. You do not swallow. You are in complete control. You’re not an addict, it’s just a contact high from your loving boyfriend’s new habit. And, obviously, before you could get him hooked, you just had to test it to make sure that he would enjoy it. After all, isn’t that one of your responsibilities as his lover? Finding him new hobbies, sexy ones like this in particular?

You gather the spilt sweetness in your mouth, sucking it from his skin and leaving bruises, little marks of how you’ve damaged him to make him yours, and kiss his leftovers into his mouth, massaging his adorable, weak, scrawny little neck, so vulnerable in your hands, to get him to swallow.

Even after the last of the sweet stains on his skin has been deposited into his mouth and he’s swallowing nothing but your saliva, you hold the kiss — and his throat. You choke him a little, and when you do let him breathe in, it is from your mouth, carefully metered and lovingly delivered. The sense of control is exhilarating.

You wonder if enough consciousness remains with him to associate your taste with the privilege of breathing, and decide to test it. Maintaining just enough of a grip to impede air flow, you pull ever so slightly away, and stare into his glassy, entranced eyes. Such a pretty shade of blue… but then you are distracted by his reaching lips, and you smile, letting him beg a little longer before rewarding him with your second-hand oxygen.

“Good 8oy,” you purr into his desperate mouth, letting him suck on the words. It makes you wonder if he finds you as delicious as you find him, and wish — not for the first time — that you could read his mind to find out. Ah, well, you suppose you’ll just have to condition him to make sure he does. He belongs to you, after all, just as you belong to him. You will not allow it to be any other way.

You bite your lip, your own pleasure growing yet more as you ponder his. Your groin pulses with desire as you rub against him, cerulean slickness beginning to drip from you. You gather a drop of the excess organic lubricant on the tip of a finger and smear it across his lips. It is immensely gratifying to watch him eagerly lick it up, to say nothing of the sensation as he begins to suckle at your finger for the rest. His tongue is hot against your digit, almost feverishly so, and you shiver and begin to shimmy up his torso.

“Aw, are you still hungry, 8a8e? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything,” you whisper gentle reassurance as you reluctantly extract your finger from his mouth. The thin strand of his saliva that connects your finger to his reaching tongue glistens like a frost beaded thread of finest silk. It reminds you of a hook. You dip the finger into your own mouth, tasting him in return, before reaching, again, for your groin to spread your engorged bulge-flaps. Your hefty bulge slides out, dripping cobalt fluid, translucent and viscous. A spatter of your concupiscent lubricant defiles John’s chest, leaving a constellation of bright blue.

He shivers, goosebumps forming on his bare skin. His small, perky nipples stand erect and tempting. You pause to appreciate them, grinding your exposed bulge against his thigh as you roll one of them gently between your sharp fangs, flicking the tip of your tongue against the sensitive flesh and sucking ruthlessly at it. John moans, hips hips spasming and drawing your attention to his strange and wonderful alien anatomy, rigid and twitching with the beating of his blood-pusher.

Thin, clear genetic slurry leaks from the sensitive tip. You gather a drop of the fluid with a finger nail and taste his salty sweetness. The satisfaction of knowing that it was your actions which brought him to this state, this unconscious ecstasy, fills you with giddy satisfaction, making your bulge twitch. Finally, submitting to your desires, you kneel above his face, your thighs pressing against his cheeks and your dripping bulge dangling right above his lips. His mouth opens to receive you and he suckles at the thin pointed tip of your bulge, not resisting as you guide it slowly deeper into his mouth until you feel it press against the back of his throat. He coughs, flecks of his saliva mixed with your lust-slime spraying from the gaps between his lips and your bulge, and speckling your groin and his face.

You pull out just far enough and just long enough for him to draw a few deep breaths around the glistening obstruction. After all, he’ll need the air soon.

With an exultant moan of pleasure, you fully insert your bulge into his throat, feeling your writing reproductive tentacle violate his esophagus.

As his muscles alternate between trying to expel or swallow the invading organ, you grind your shame globes into his slime-stained face. Just in case, you hook a thumb into his mouth to keep him from biting down. You consider allowing him to die — he’d survive, after all — but you aren’t sure what effect, if any, god-tier revival would have on the drugs in his system. If it purged the toxins, that would be a problem.

So, when the hue of his face trends toward unsustainably unhealthy, you withdraw, letting your spit-slick bulge flop onto his face. He coughs and splutters, breathing raggedly, strings of his drool still anchoring his lips to your bulge. His breath is a weak stimulus, but as he begins to recover, he laps at the oozing, hook-shaped tip of your bulge, entirely unprompted.

You take his cheek in your palm, and praise him again, stroking his face and petting his disheveled hair, his onyx locks damp with sweat. He makes a contented little sound and nuzzles into your gentle caress. He’s shockingly cute when he’s in a drugged stupor, and your bulge pulses as you look upon his almost serene face, rewarding his suckling with a couple ounces of your genetic material.

You find yourself beset by an urge to simply cuddle with him. Even after your violent debasement of his throat, his expression seems peaceful and happy. It sparks an alien desire to just fall asleep here, atop him, to hold him and reciprocate his loving nuzzles.

But that, now, would be irresponsible. If you fell asleep, he could wake up first, and then things would rapidly become very awkward. So, instead, you kiss him again, slow and gentle, exploring his mouth and savoring his taste. A vague, fruity undertone that you can’t quite grasp bewitches you, and you methodically search his mouth for clues. He is warm and soft, and the easy yielding of his lips seems to invite yet more violation.

You pull back and slip a hand under his head as he attempts to follow your retreating touch. You cradle his skull, working your fingers into his hair, working out the larger clumps of sugar-stuck hair. You had originally planned to take him to bed once you had finished playing with him, but, with the state he’s in now, sticky, sweaty, and splattered with a variety of organic fluids, he’d end up making an absolute mess of the bed, and that would be a whole cleanup _thing_ in addition to the cleaning you had actually _planned_ for; if on the other hand, you bathed him first, everything would be just fine.

He is light, even for his size, and you easily lift him into a princess carry, letting his head rest against your shoulder. His still wet lips press against your neck, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine as you carry him the short distance to the bathroom.

Setting him down in the tub, you turn the water on, carefully adjusting the temperature of the water with one hand. Once you’ve got it just right, you set John down in the tub, sitting behind him and pulling him into your lap. As the steaming water gushes from the faucet, you kiss the top of his head. He stirs, slightly, the effects of the drug beginning to lessen sooner than you had expected, so you expend just enough psychic effort to lull him back to slumber.

He mumbles unintelligibly from the depths of his dreams as you wash him, especially when your soap-slick hands glide across his still unsated erection. You wonder if this is an incoherent attempt to beg, and, once you finish cleaning the rest of him, decide to indulge him.

Beginning at a leisurely pace, you run your thumb from the base to the tip and back, applying only the lightest pressure. It’s enough to make him shudder, rocking his hips to press more firmly against your digit.

“Aww, even asleep, you’re just soooooooo eager,” you purr into his ear, your lips brushing against his flesh, “Fine, a 8it more, since you’ve 8een so good.”

Taking his shaft wholly in your grasp, you run your tongue along the grooves of his outer ear as you pull him back to the position you have chosen for him. Your bulge, pulsing and gently writhing, rests comfortably against his ass, and he instinctively wiggles against its slick form. The sensation is pleasant, and you, in turn, slide your hand slowly up and down, your grip tight and your pace matched to his own grinding.

Almost immediately, his breath grows ragged, occasionally punctuated by soft little squeaks and moans. You can’t really blame him, with how much of the time spent washing was spent ‘accidentally’ teasing him. But still, you really need to teach him better self control.

“Shh-sh, not quite yet, 8a8y,” you caress his face as you loosen your grip almost entirely, forestalling his climax. Now that you’ve got him like this, you don’t feel quite finished. There’s a bit more that you wanted to do, and besides, you read online that it feels better for humans the longer it takes. The puppet visuals hadn’t exactly been helpful, but they had been funny, in a surreal sort of way.

You slide your hands beneath his buttocks, lifting John just enough that your bulge has room to find its way into his ass. It presses and probes against his flesh, smearing it with cobalt slime before it sinks into his pliant aperture. John moans as you enter him, globs of pre leaking from his tip and dripping into the water. He’s already so close, teetering on the precipice as you slowly lower him again, gradually letting yourself fill him.

Once he’s secure, you wrap your arms around his chest and hold him close as your bulge explores his innards. When it applies pressure to a particular spot, you notice his muscles twitch, making his cock jump and leak, even without any external stimulation. You settle into a half doze, letting the involuntary actions of your bulge stir within him while you hold him close, pressing as much of yourself as you can against him, drinking deep of his presence.

But as the water begins to cool around you, the last of its warmth nearly lost, you kiss first his neck, then his ear, your tongue swirling around his aural whorls. You increase the pace of your bulge’s writhing to match the ferocity of your kiss. Finally, biting at his earlobe, you permit his release. Immediately, cum spurts, white and thick, from his presently untouched shaft, splashing into the water. His legs shake and his ass tenses around your bulge as his body shudders in the throes of his long delayed orgasm. The pressure is tactile proof of the wave of pleasure you have finally let break over him.

When his shivers change from those of rushing pleasure to the more uniform shaking of chill water, you set the tub to drain, and, carefully turning him to face you so that you need not withdraw from him, loop his legs around your hips as you stand, carrying him to the bedroom. Sitting at the head of the bed, you throw the covers out of your way, maneuver into a comfortable spooning position, and pull the covers back up. Breathing deeply and holding John tightly, you join him in slumber.


	2. Be Yourself ==>

Stinging pain spreads from your quivering extremities, crawling across and through your flesh. Where it passes it leaves a pleasant numbness, the tactile equivalent of a rolling blackout brain freeze. The numbness slowly warms, itching like embers under your skin, no longer mere pain, but hunger, a heat that demands a touch. In some places, it is a little cooler — and a bit stickier — where your spilled drink has splashed you. In other places, the hottest and neediest areas, the air instinctively soothes you, tiny puffing caresses, the most you can subconsciously draw on in your current state. 

You don’t have any idea how much time passes before you hear the sounds of the door opening and closing, or even how much time passes between those two noises, but they do stir you from your mental paralysis, just a bit. The door winks like an immense and inhuman eye, a splotchy vertical slit of a pupil against a vast, shining sclera. You blink, hear the door lock, and, filling your dream-scape, other sounds arrive. Breathing, footsteps, and rattling are filtered by your addled mind into a soup of stimuli, flowing in incoherent patterns and echoing again and again. You imagine an arachnid of gargantuan proportions, with clattering glass legs, approaching as if in a nightmare.

Of course, you tell yourself it isn’t real, that you really should have listened to Rose about the dangers of rye bread — that you’ll still be around to admit she was right when this, whatever it is, is over.

You feel something grip each of your ankles — something strong — and begin to drag you across the floor. You want to open your eyes and see what has you in its clutches, but when you do, the chaotic, impossible visions which dominate your perception painfully occlude your sight. It feels almost as if your vitreous humor has frozen and crystallized, cracking apart into prisms of visual chaos. A compound optical fracture which you’d really rather not have to deal with. You let your eyes slide wholly closed to filter out the excessive stimulus, leaving only your non-visual senses to figure out what’s going on.

You focus your mental faculties and — holy shit where did your clothes go? Now that you’re not trying to make any sense of your jumbled vision, you can feel the warm air circulating and brushing against your naked body, slowly drying the colder spots where your lost drink had spilled on you. It’s odd, you can feel every inch of your skin in crystal clear high definition, so jacked the fuck into every individual touch and sensation that you don’t even what to say.

So, when you feel a cool, wet, and slightly rough object trailing across your skin, tracing the outline of your ribcage, you are blown away by the amplified sensation. It’s like a lit match drawn across a gas soaked sheet of snow. Icy sparks flare around the cool trail, the evaporation of saliva (you’re reasonably sure that’s a tongue that you feel on your skin) giving you goosebumps.

You feel twin points of sharpness on your flesh and actually relax a bit — you think you recognize those teeth, so you’re fairly confident that your home isn’t being invaded by a crazed murderer or something. Vriska is probably just taking care of you. Everything will be fine.

Yes, that’s right, you can just let go and let her take care of you. Vriska probably knows what she’s doing. Or, maybe this is ALL a dream, in which case, you can wait to wake up. If so, you have a growing feeling it will be a wet dream.

The licking turns to sucking, and, as disoriented as you are, you think you can feel it all at once, eight different points of erotic pain; to your frustration, none of those brilliant points shines directly on your agonizingly engorged phallus. Your breath comes to you in ragged gulps, quivering in your lungs like a scared bird. As you struggle to breathe, you feel a comforting, familiar pair of lips on yours, Vriska’s alien saliva mixing your own, carrying with it the taste of sweetened dairy.

Her long fingers wrap around your neck, her thumb gently massaging the underside of your chin. You swallow, reflexively, the thick sweet drool sliding down your esophagus like syrup, but she releases neither her grip nor the kiss. In fact, her grip tightens, blocking your respiration entirely. You try to breathe — no, you try to try to breathe, but it seems impossible, all of a sudden. You don’t know how long the literally breathless, one-sided kiss lasts, but each time you’re about to black out, a wave of Serket-scented, semi-stale air enters your mouth as her grip, briefly, weakens, letting you inhale her gift of air, making you incoherently grateful for her graciousness.

Her hold tightens again as she retreats - you open your eyes and can just barely make out her face, so close to yours but no longer touching. You feel her breath on your parted lips - air. You need to breathe. Her breath is all you’ve had for you don’t know how long, and before much longer, you’re lifting your head as best you can, lips parted in supplication. Thankfully, she reciprocates, granting you air once more.

She says something as you gulp at the air of her breath, but your senses are too jumbled to make sense of whatever it is, only able to tell by tone that she’s pleased - you’ve done something right.

The intensity of her kiss increases, and you taste what must be a bit of her blood on her teeth. Her mouth draws away from yours, her lips replaced by a finger, smeared with what you recognize as the goo secreted by her bulge. You suck at her finger, cleaning it for her. You’re not unfamiliar with this kind of foreplay, after all. The _ Oh Shit _ moment when you realize this is, in fact, foreplay is suppressed by the quaking euphoria gradually being forced upon you. You’re not really sure why this is her response to finding you unconscious on the floor, but you also don’t really have the capacity to mind at just this moment. Her fingernail tickles your tongue, reminding you of what you’re doing, and you get back to it. You feel sure that this wouldn’t be happening if you weren’t okay with it, and since it’s already happening, you must be okay with it. Right? Her weight shifts, and you feel her wiggle closer, straddling your abdomen. You suck more fervently at her finger, and she says… something. She must be whispering, because you can’t hear her, but she removes her finger from your mouth and you watch as it makes the journey to hers in slow motion. Then, her hand reaches down, and your vision follows it.

Vriska’s hand slips between her legs, teasing her groin just barely out of your view. You feel a splatter of fluids on your chest as she coaxes out her bulge. Her writhing reproductive organ writhes from between her legs and occludes your sight, demanding your attention. In your half-conscious state, its undulating, pulsating mass blurs. Your perception warps again, and it’s a snake, a dragon, a wacky waving inflatable tube guy, and so on until you close your eyes against the unreliable visual onslaught. You tense up when you feel her mouth — marginally warmer than her splashed juices — pucker against your chest. She sucks one of your nipples into her mouth, and you feel the prodding of her fangs. They’re sharp enough to pierce it easily, but they don’t. Your hips twitch, your arousal cutting through the jumbled mess of signals running around your peripheral nervous system, and you feel your erection wave back and forth. You try to speak, but all that escapes is a whimpering moan, and by the time you hear it, you’ve forgotten what you were going to say, because Vriska is trailing her finger agonizingly slowly up your cock. The thin, bright line of sensation vanishes, leaving only the memory, which has already begun to drip away.

Chilly genetic slurry drips from the crescent head of Vriska’s bulge in a thin, constant stream and draws a sticky line up your neck and chin until finally it falls on your lips, refocusing your attention on your mouth. You lap it up instinctively, the sweet, almost minty flavor spreading through your mouth. You open your mouth, letting in the alien organ. You don’t — can’t — resist as it pushes farther in, eventually tickling the back of your throat and making you cough, gagging on the flesh and fluid filling your mouth. She partially withdraws, and, swallowing the slurry, you catch your breath, and none too soon. Moments later, you can feel the pressure of her groin on your face, her thighs against your cheeks, and the shaft of her bulge forcing its way down your throat.

You can’t breathe. You can’t even cough, though your chest aches with how much your lungs are trying. Her bulge fills your esophagus and writhes, distending your throat first one way, then the next. Vriska presses down harder against you, and you feel her hand against your face, her thumb jammed into your already overfilled mouth, stretching your cheek back as she pushes it between your molars.

You can’t breathe. You open your eyes, trying to meet hers to plead, but, even if the angle were more conducive to such heartwarming antics, blackness is creeping in around the sides of your vision.

You can’t breathe. Your body is in full-on panic mode, convinced you’re about to die and unable to do anything about it. Your eyes roll up and your vision goes dark.

You can breathe. Damn you missed air. The tip of Vriska’s bulge hovers just above your lips, and you lick at it, guided by habit and tempted by sweetness. Vriska’s hand against your cheek again — when did it leave? You don’t remember. She says something, and her tone is enough to make you smile. Her hand is gentle, and you rub against it, incoherently glad she’s taking care of you, the cognitive dissonance massaged into oblivion by the toxin in your system. You’re nearly unconscious now, still not sure if this is a dream or not.

The kiss makes you stop worrying about that, too. Her lips press against yours, and you let her in, doing what you can to kiss clumsily back. It lasts a long time, and it, at least, makes sense. You don’t want it to end, and all you can do to continue it when she withdraws is to weakly follow. You feel so weak, and so when she slips her hand under you head and lifts you, you don’t resist, but merely kiss her where you can, fumblingly pressing your lips to her neck.

The next thing you know, water is rising around you. You shake your head, trying to clear your mind and assess your situation, and immediately sink down into dream.

You are underwater, in your dream, alone in the abyss. The only down you know is from the cold, hard sea floor pressing against you where you sit. The pressure is too much to move, and you feel sliding, invisible pressure against you. Whatever the source of the sensation is, it takes its time, coasting across every square inch of your body, but only lightly touching your cock. You can’t remember what was going on before you fell asleep, but you’re hard and you’re eager, so you do your best to shift against whatever the source is, trying to press your erection against it. When you finally manage to shift yourself, you feel something brush your ear, tickling it with bubbles. 

Something slimy slurps against your ear, and the alien pressure of the current wraps around your penis, swirling up and down. A second, even slimier object presses against your ass, slipping against your thighs and sliding between your buttocks. You’re almost there when the stroking slows down, its grip loosens and more bubbles pop against your ear. The current leaves your cock, and shifts under you, lifting you effortlessly and spreading you enough for the tentacle to find your entrance and push in. Your stomach knots as you’re penetrated, a pleasant lightheadedness making you sigh. It pushes further in, exploring you. The sensation is somehow familiar, and comforting, and, on the occasions where it presses against your prostate, you tense, your cock twitching in response. It’s not enough for you to get off, but, unable to do anything about it, you eventually drift deeper into sleep, only jerking back to awareness of your dream when the tentacle grinds against you just right.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but you feel a soft kiss on your neck, recognizable as such because it brings you just almost into the land of the waking. The kiss travels to your ear and you realize it’s been a tongue all along, and the bubbles bursting around are words. The first few are still incomprehensible, but you recognize the last one, and with the pressure against your prostate, it can only be an imperative.

“Cum.”

And you do, the gathered tension of your body splashing from you in waves that break over your already battered psyche, making your body shake. It lasts a long time, the pressure in your guts pushing out every last drop, until, exhausted, you go slack. The shivers recede just long enough for your body to realize that the water is now quite cold indeed, and you shiver again. Cool arms wrap around you and lift you up from the water, even as you drop back out of consciousness.


End file.
